She spent the entire drive lost in her thoughts. She felt totally at loss, needless to say the situation was none of the ordinary. She had spent almost three years refusing to mourn a body she didn't bury. Confused was a huge understatement to how she felt. It was more like betrayal, she felt like the entire system had just mocked her, laughing at her face while tearing up for appearances. When the phone rang, it was a whole other level of shock swallowing her as her mind fought against the twinge of happiness her heart felt. A tiny part of her was relieved. Relieved that he was there, alive and breathing. She needed to follow her head- she was hanging to sanity with a thread. She knew one thing, she had to act and act wisely.

She had barely thrown on some shoes when her phone vibrated again. She had managed to call her mom, asked her to keep an eye on Ryan while she tried to figure out what was going on and what she would do. If there was something she could do. What kind of whirlwind she was placed in again.

Despite the thundering hope in her chest, she couldn't afford to hit rock bottom. Not again. She refused to let the accumulated hope she had prayed for fool her. Not until and unless she saw him again. Not until she had tangible proof. Maybe then she'll allow herself to crumble and let hope in. For now, her defenses were up, higher than ever.

She barely had time to fill her mom in, the situation making no sense before she flew out the door. She wasn't at all surprised when a strong knock was heard at her door. She was expecting for a car to come and get her. But now, the entire situation felt surreal, adrenaline running in her veins, fusing to her blood, as she tried to organize her confused mind. Why wait all these years? Who had failed her, failed them? Why lead her to believe that she had lost her everything then suddenly throw her a bone?

She looks at the public streetlights that are barely noticeable through the heavily tinted car window that came to her house. She couldn't thing straight for now, there were too many things vying for attention, suffocating her. She closes her eyes, only to have a vivid representation of his face appear behind her heavy eyelids. She leans her cheek against the window, working on regulating the breathing that was already becoming uneven. She tried to relax a little, she didn't need instructions to know tonight would be long, very long.

She opens her eyes when the car comes to a halt, a man dressed in a formal black suit opening her door, leading her through a long, dark corridor. They walked a few minutes, but it was enough for her to start feeling claustrophobic, and for her heart to start a wild run tucking on the veins to escape and run. Where? That's the mystery. She's thorn, what if she's not ready? Her head had fallen from above her shoulders the second she left home. Now, her heart was giving up on her. She exhales, loudly. It's not like she's bothering the unnerving calm company around her. Were she alone, she couldn't have sensed a difference in the coldness surrounding her. She was escorted by a man who hasn't looked at her or spoken to her other than three words, "follow me, Ma'am" before leaving her to follow his tracks. She's about to open her mouth when she closes it again, a heavy door standing before them.

He slides what she can guess is a card and the fortress opens. It's a room, or what is supposed to be a room, but the lightening is minimal, blue-ish, and it's cold, as if death had declared itself master of the universe she had stepped in. The door behind her closes, making a sound that nearly makes her jump from her skin. She clenches her fist, her nails biting into skin, the slight pain in her palm failing in giving her some comfort. She's not dreaming.

A taller man, if such thing was possible, makes his way towards her, holding a paper cup from which dark liquid is nearly spilling from the brim. As he approaches her personal space she smells the strong scent of cheap coffee. He hands her the hot cup, she gladly accepts it; taste be damned.

"Mrs. Grant, thank you for coming so fast. I'm agent Tom Larsen. We thought you would want to know about the situation." It's the man who called her, she recognizes the baritone. The voice is strong, almost commanding, but cold and void of any compassion. Not that she needs it. She was sick and tired of the pity looks she still gets.

You really don't say. She bites her lips in an attempt to stop the tide of accusations threatening to unleash. Instead, she brings the cup to her lips, taking a small sip crunching her nose at the bad taste. Definitely not a brand she'd go for. But the distraction is not strong enough; she's furious, steam nearly spilling from her, "Would you care to explain what's going on ? I get a call nearly three years ago that breaks my entire family, your superior or whomever the hell it was assured me that you looked for him. He was left for d- dead and now, suddenly, my husband just reappears?"

His features do not, for a second flinch or change, as if engraved in stone forever. "We understand that the situation might be unusual but, Ma'am, you were the first call as soon as your husband was cleared."

"Cleared? Cleared from what? Since when do you have him?"

"The situation is a little delicate. I'll fill you in as we walk, he's down the hall," the agent replies ignoring her questions. She wants to act stubborn, stand still until he or someone else gave her some answers. Be like a kid in a candy store when their parents refuse to give in and indulge in more candy or buy the latest new fashionable toy. But she's an adult, the bitter reminder that she can't be selfish but being kept in the dark is not something she appreciates. He's down the hall. Just like that he had her, she takes the bait. She forgets that she's mad, that she feels betrayed. She starts walking towards the direction he has taken, striding to keep up with his fast pace until she stops in her tracks. She can't hear what the agent is saying anymore.

Right in front of her, behind a tinted tall glass wall, sitting on the uncomfortable metallic chair is her husband. He's not looking in her direction; he can't see her because of the glass between them if he tried. Everything stops. Everything is frozen, hanging in the air like she is. The wind is knocked out of her. Breath stuck in her throat. She can't hear or feel anything. It's like being underwater, liquid acting like a shield. Her lower lip is slightly hanging in gravity. It's only them, swallowed in time, as she takes the sight of the man before her. He looks tired; heavy bag under his eyes, which fixated somewhere and for a second she's jealous of whatever has his attention. She feels like she should have his undivided attention, she craves it. His hands are on the table, in a tight ball. His hair, a mimic of the smooth curls she ran her fingers through a million times before, a few scars had claimed his skin, the velvety surface she used to kiss every inch of day and night for over eleven years. She recognizes every inch of him; details matching every piece of the memories of him, it almost looks surreal. Until she looks at his clothes; she doesn't recognize his clothing, it looks so unfamiliar, uncanny, a reminder that things aren't what they were. Another punch to the gut and she can barely feel it. She's overwhelmed. "It's him," she gasps mostly to herself. As if finally seeing him, saying the words out loud gave everything a context, took any bit of doubt she still possibly had. And she doesn't know whether to run to his arms or yell at him.

It's only when she feels a tap on her shoulder that she looks away, for once grateful for the agent next to her, handing her tissues. When her hands move she notice she no longer holds the cup. It's at her feet, liquid spilled everywhere around her. She couldn't care less as she takes the tissues, drying the few tears that gave her away, showcasing her weakness.

She was half listening to what the man next to her was saying, " … from the looks of it he was living in a cabin there, the local authorities found him and called us, fortunately he still had his ID tag necklace on. It's how we were able to identify him ourselves. The doctors say… "

She interrupts him, "the doctors?" as in plural?

"He went trough a lot."

"I can see that." Venom and disdain clearly dripping from her voice.

"Ma'am, I mean he went trough a lot. We still don't know the full extent of the damage his brain has suffered from but-" the hesitation to share further information is clear in his voice, like a breach in the armor he's been wearing so far, he looks at her like he's trying to gauge how much she can take and she sucks in a breath, trying to ready herself for something she's not sure she wants to know. But he's her husband, as unsure as she is of her readiness to possibly learn more about the man she used to know like the back of her hand, she feels like she owes herself, she owes her son that much. She nods, willing him silently to continue, "we don't know how much his brain has blocked out. It would be normal in such situations; our troupes mostly come back from traumatic experiences, so many suffer from PTSD, but so far two doctors plus the one from where he was examined him, and were unable to determine how far his memory loss goes back to. He could have buried more happy memories than others- mainly because of guilt. I can't let you in there, knowing he might not recognize you. His case is pretty famous here, we're only trying to help you."

"He might not recognize me?" she lets out in a breath, there's a crack in her voice, a punch so powerful to her gut; it almost takes her breath away. She blinks several times, an effort to keep herself in check, bricks forming around her, raising an impossibly long, invisible wall around her body. It's too much to take in, too much. She turns her face to the glass window, watching the man she fell so hard for, the man she would trade places with if it means helping him get through this. But all she sees is the mimic of her son. If he really doesn't remember them, it would definitely end her. She bites her lip, so hard she can almost taste blood. She's been living in unfamiliar uncertainty for too long and as familiar and almost reassuring her oddly protective cocoon might be, if she really wants to rebuild her life, she knows what's left to do. Hard is actually so far away from what she feels she's about to deal with, "I want to see him. Just let me in," she says in a soft yet determined voice. The wall is back up, and only one person can break it.

Tom looks at the imposing figure of a man standing nearby the door, nodding at him as he steps away and glides a card in the card reader. The light turns green; it's now or never. Taking a deep, steady breath, she opens the door, she can feel her body shaking, her brain recalling the last words Tom spoke ringing her ears as the words PTSD, memory loss, we can't assess yet the extent of the damage dance in front of her eyes. But when she steps inside, she can see a woman in a white blouse she hadn't noticed before – probably a nurse- with a table housing what she can guess are drugs in front of her. It's scary, no it's unsettling, and it's the kind of things she watches in movies and shows but not her actual life. It's like jumping in a cage with a lion; only it's not fear of being attacked that scares her, but the possible rejection.

She stand in front of the door, Tom standing directly behind her as he closes the door and doesn't budge, leaving her free to do anything she wants. But she stands still, eyes locked with him, willing him to look up and take her in his arms hold her tightly, crush her against his chest until she can't breathe; she wants him to run to her and kiss her; she wants him to tell her he does remember who she is who their son is; she wants a miracle to happen. As if on cue, she feels him tense and her heart starts a wild run out of her chest. Her left foot attempt to take a step up, try to close the distance, they've never stood in the same room with so much air, so much distance between them. She feels cold, alone; she's scared. She wants to say something, call his name, but she's left voiceless, her vocal chords unwilling to cooperate as her head screams his name over and over again. As if he can hear her pleas, he looks up from the haze he's been sucked in, and the coldness radiating from him is worse than a snowstorm freezing her bones. It only takes her a few seconds to partially recover as she tries to read him; something she used to be so good at. Her eyes are trying to break whatever barrier he put up; she's not an idiot, she can actually feel it. She's used to working with people with the same defense mechanism. She knows if she can break it, whatever's imposing itself between them, it would be winning a tiny bit of this war. The word is acrimonious on her tongue.

Slowly, she inches toward the available chair in front of him; it's at arm-reach. Perfect. She doesn't want to unsettle him. They're walking on very thin ice; any faux pas could be the end of it. When she's mid-distance from the chair, he stands up and she tries her best not to freak out, a hard task to say the least when you don't know what's coming next, what to expect. From the corner of her eye, she can see the nurse standing, an abnormally long needle in her hand, never breaking eye contact, she slowly raises her hand halting the woman's movements, effectively stopping her. There's something about his eyes, about the way he's looking at her, something amongst the anguish that's haunting his features and torturing his bloodshot eyes, something else is standing out. It's small, actually it's tiny, a shy sunray in grey clouds, but it's there. She can feel it, and it brings tears to her eyes as he approaches her, waves of electricity linking them again. Slowly. It's blue and brown melting together, in an oddly way, rediscovering each other. Giving way to another sense of stained familiarity. As he's slowly killing the remaining distance, he looks her up and down, taking her in, gauging her as if he's trying to link her to some memory.

Oh, God. Please, please. She closes her eyes, praying over and over, hoping that the touch she knows is coming isn't going to turn her soul to ashes. It feels like an eternity has gone by, as if hours transpired since her eyelids shut down before a calloused hand meets her skin, familiar fingertips claiming the side of her face. She opens her eyes, hoping to see the break of a smile but all she can see is torture squeezing his face to a slight shade of red as his eyes water like he's going to break into tears. She can't stop it anymore. She wants to hug the pain away, be the soothing medicine he so desperately needs, it tornes her own soul seeing him like this. In so much apparent pain she wants to hold him as they cry together. Involuntarily, her hands rise up to grab his arms, draw him closer. Barely has she made contact with him, he jerks away, shaking his head vigorously as if her touch burnt him, "No, no. Please, no." his voice as shaken as the rest of his body.

Rejection is like a bullet from a smoking gun.

She's taken outside, she can't believe it. It hurts even more when it's real. A hurricane passed through her. She's taken to a chair, sitting is what she needs right now. Her feet are trembling, she knows she wouldn't have lasted long. She grips her head between her hands, trying to make sense what happened to him, what could be so bad to leave such a heavy weigh, a print on him. Her mind is haunted by how he looked, as if his worse nightmare became reality. The second the tip of her fingers made contact, she knows she lost him, like his brain shut down and went so far away he couldn't see her anymore. Like his mind transported him elsewhere and he doesn't realize it's only some kind of a vision. Like he's haunted.

But one thing she's absolutely sure of, he knows who she is. Her ears are finally functioning again as she hears his ragged breathing from outside the room. She looks up only to see him clenching his temples until his nails turn white, his face bright red. The slight lighting in the room making contact with a ring on his finger- his wedding band.

It's a beautiful, incredibly warm spring day. She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, taking in the slightly blush colored wedding gown she decided she would get married in. She smiles at the reflection; she knows he'll love it. Especially the back; nearly non-existent. She's not exactly nervous. No, she's ecstatic. Today, she's marrying her best friend, her lover, and the love of her life. All three combined in one person. To their joined friends, it made no sense waiting as long as they did to get married. They were deemed as the non-married boring old couple. Probably because they were so domesticated. Already.

She looks at the mirror, focusing again on her looks. Or at least, trying to. Gabriella, her older sister, had taken her phone away, because "the bride and groom shouldn't be seeing each other let alone texting so give me that damned phone".

She had laughed. From what? She has no clue. She just wants the ceremony to be over with. She never liked being the center of attention, not even on her own wedding day. She wanted to run down the aisle, urge the priest to speak quickly and pronounce them as husband and wife. Husband. She smiles, Mrs. Grant., she loves the ring of it. Holds so many promises. Before she knows it, she and her father are linking arms as he gives her away to the man that has captured her heart. That owns every inch of her, and has been claiming her for the past two years. She's losing herself; no she's swimming in an ocean of blue love, of affection as they're reciting the vows one after the other. He takes her hand, slowly pushing another ring up, slowly claiming her forever as she does the same, linking their hearts for the rest of eternity. A bond that will never be broken.

When they turn around, their respective parents are crying their eyes out as they're hugging them, their siblings joining in the overflowing happiness. Because that's what's being whole means. Their eyes connect, a thousand love words unspoken. Because they don't need to utter them to know how they feel about one another, it's all in the eyes when you know where to look. What to look for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III."

She looks up at Tom, dragging her mind out of buried memories, "He knows who I am, he knows me. I don't know how but he does. He's wearing his ring," Her voice doesn't leave room for uncertainty or debate. It's a fact. Somewhere in the darkness, she knows there's the man she loves, the man she needs so badly.

"He refuses for anyone to take it from him. It was a struggle to get him prepped for the scans. Follow me, ma'am. There's something I need to show you."

There's an office not too far. The overall décor as gloomy and uninviting as the rest of the place. Whatever this place might be. Tom takes an evidence plastic bag housing a few folded papers, maybe two or three, she can't tell. He opens them, laying them in front of a chair where he invites her to sit, "Take a look."

With shaky hands, she takes the seemingly old paper, that's been folded and unfolded so many times, the edge of the tick paper have divided into multiple layers. When she unfolds it, her hand flies to her mouth. There, a picture of her and their son, they were still at the hospital, Ryan is barely two days old, eyes closed, they're nose against nose as she's looking at him with infinite tenderness.

She takes the soaked tissue, catching the tears before they escape, before they blur her vision. The second picture is a family picture, all she can see are smiles and they seem like they're mocking her. An old version of them pouring out their happiness.

"Where did you find these?" she certainly knows the answer. She just needs to hear it.

"The soldiers found them under a pillow back there. It might explain why he seems to remember you. Ma'am, we want your consent to start therapy. The doctors are optimistic. I won't lie to your face, he's had horrific nightmares, and he screams at night from what we've been told but there are ways to help him."

"How?"

"We want to try hypnosis, try to have him remember some things so that we can retrace whatever happened to him. It will take time, maybe even months but he'll get through it."

"What do you need?"

"Pictures. If you have any, DVDs, audios anything that could bring up memories, it will help his brain recollect and work on remembering those parts of his life. At this point PTSD patients only need to be reassured, feel less alone, they feel guilty because they're alive and not their buddies, they feel like they're misunderstood. We want to change that. We have the technology to help him and we will, memory loss is something we can overcome with the right therapy. I can have a doctor filling you in as soon as possible."

"I want to take him home."

"Ma'am, that's not a good idea."

"He shouldn't be alone, he needs somewhere he can feel like home. He needs his home."

"We want to keep him for a few days, just until we can tame him. He needs to be heavily sedated for now. Like I said earlier he's been through a lot."

She nods, she's powerless. She can't lie and pretend like he didn't scare her, "What do you need me to do?"

"Just bring us some pictures, DVDs, be here for him. He'll be transferred tonight to a hospital, private quarters. You can come and go, as you like. As soon as he's cleared to go home, I'll make sure no one is standing your way."

It's nearly five in the morning when she opens the door. The house feels odds, probably because she's bone tired.

Although this night is completely different, leaving her drunk in her feelings, although she's trying to build up a wall, she feels like she's totally failing. Her face plunged head first in her tear-stained pillow. Praying for enough strength to help her get through this.

I can't find the words to thank you for your words and your support. Thank you doesn't begin to cover it but really, thank you!

Next up, you should have Fitz's perspective (if I can manage to portray him..). The way I'm seeing this story is him overcoming PTSD (I know you don't exactly totally heal from it but you can overcome it, build a new bridge towards 'normalcy') so you'll have flashbacks (good and bad) as he's getting the help he needs. Actually both need it.

Thanks for reading and feel free to leave me your thoughts.